


No Exit

by interflora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interflora/pseuds/interflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Post “Southern Comfort,” Sam lets slip that he tried to commit suicide a few months prior to Dean's return from Purgatory. Wincest.</p><p>They keep driving until they can’t anymore, and then somehow they come back and do it again. Together.<br/>It’s not natural. Not right. Nothing about them is—but they keep going. Them’s the rules as far as Dean’s concerned. It’s not fair and it sure as hell ain’t easy but it’s what they do. If Sam stops, Dean stops. All there is to it. And he can’t stop now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Exit

**Author's Note:**

> In which I write porn, get into Dean’s head, and abuse the word “fuck.”  
> Warnings for mention of underage, suicide / self-harm, wincest / weecest, slight violence

Dean shuts the door behind them and shucks off his coat, tossing it on to the worn armchair in the corner of yet another rattrap joint off 44.

He runs a hand through rain drenched hair and bites his tongue for the eighth time in an hour.

Sam shakes off like a dog by the opposite bed. He doesn’t look at his brother, biting down just as hard as Dean is. Chances are he’ll be spewing all that poison at Dean in a matter of minutes. Kid never was very good at keeping his mouth shut, especially when it counts.

“Where’s the book?” Sam asks.

“In the trunk.”

Sam’s mouth draws tighter but he doesn’t say anything. He steps back into the pouring rain and slams the door behind him.

 _Good._ Let the kid fucking drown for all he cares ‘cause he’s had it—

Dean takes a deep breath and clenches his shaking hands into fists.

He can’t go on like this. _They_ can’t go on like this. Someone’s gonna end up needing a hospital visit or one of them’s gonna take off in the night and when it comes to running away, Sam’s a certified master. Which has a lot to do with why he can’t even look Sam in the eye.

_Her name’s Amelia._

Dean replays the words over and over, mouthing them with a sneer as he tosses his bag at the bed against the far wall. He misses and the duffel slumps off the edge to the filthy shag carpet.

Thunder rumbles and Sam comes back inside with a massive hardbound book tucked inside his jacket. His stupid, long hair hangs like a wet curtain in front of his eyes and he pushes it back with a too-big hand. He brushes past his older brother.

They unpack in silence until Dean turns on the TV and can pretend to be interested in a set of kitchen knives for only two easy payments of 19.99.

It’s hard to say which of them snaps first but all of a sudden they’re screaming each other down.

“You didn’t even—”

“You don’t _knowYoudon’tknowwhat I did—”_

_“Yeah, Sam? The fuck don’t I know?!”_

And they’re up, off the beds, scarce inches between them and all Dean can see is red. He may not be possessed by a specter anymore but he remembers that fury, remembers how right it sat in his chest because _Sam didn’t look for him._

Sam left him to die. Sam left him in Purgatory with a vampire as his only friend, pissing his pants scared every single night wondering if he’d ever get out if he’d ever—

 “I _tried._ I tried to look for you.”

            “The hell’s that mean, Sam? Either you did or you didn’t. What, you _thought_ about it and figured it’d be too hard? Doesn’t fucking count.”

            “That’s not—” Sam grits his teeth. “Whatever. Forget it.”

            He makes for the door but Dean blocks him.

            “What, you gonna run away again?”

            Sam stares down at the floor. He’s counting backwards in his head and he’s losing grip fast. It’s so easy to press Sam’s buttons, always has been for Dean. He gets under his little brother’s skin like nobody else can. Sure enough, when Sam opens his mouth his voice shakes from pent up anger.

            “Dean. Move.”

            “Or what?”

            Sam flinches and his shoulders droop a little.

            “Please, just move.”

            “I’m not letting you leave ‘til we sort this shit out, Sam. This is fucking ridiculous.”

            “I don’t want to,” Sam says. His eyes are gonna burn a hole in the shitty carpet. “I can’t.”

            “ _Can’t?”_ Dean repeats in disbelief. “You really wanna get away from me that much, Sam?”

            “Please just let me go.”

            “No,” Dean clenches his jaw.

            “Dean, you don’t know. You don’t know what it was like—”

            “The hell I don’t,” Dean snaps back. “You really gonna tell me I don’t know what it’s like to have your own brother die on your watch?”

            “You didn’t die, Dean, you were fucking _gone.”_

Sam’s gaze inches up from the floor, starting somewhere around Dean’s boots and scanning slowly up his body as if he’s forgotten who’s standing in front of him and is rebuilding him from memory.

            “And then you came back.”

            “Sam,” Dean sighs, frustrated. “We’ve been through this a dozen times.”

            “Doesn’t make it easier. Besides, I didn’t think… I didn’t know.”

            “You didn’t even _look,_ Sam. How could you not try after…?”

            “I did look,” Sam says and adds as a mumbled afterthought, “Just not here.”

            “Then where, Sam? Minnesota? Idaho? Did ya just get in the car and drive for a while before you decided it was all too hard?” Dean snaps. “Did you mail your school applications on the way or did you at least wait a month for that?”

            Sam glances up at him and shakes his head, long hair shifting.

            “Forget it. You’re right.”

            Dean blinks.

            “What, that’s it? _I’m_ right?”

            “Yeah,” Sam mutters, looking past him at the door. “I couldn’t do it.”

            Dean still doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s going on about, but if Sam doesn’t want him to understand, he’s not going to in this lifetime. He probably pulled some freaky spiritual hike through the desert crap and called ita solid effort.

            “I mean, I know I should’ve been able to at this point. It’s not like it hurt _that_ bad, it’s just you start to kinda lose control of your hands and—” he laughs nervously. “It’s like you’re falling asleep.”

            Dean freezes and looks up.

            “But uh, you know, the blood, and everything, I just.” He laughs again, then shuts up, stricken like he’s just sworn at someone’s grandma. “I tried, Dean, and I couldn’t do it.”

And Dean—Dean gets it.

“The blood was everywhere— I really thought it would work,” Sam says, his eyes trained on the stained carpet.

“What did you do?” He asks. “Sam, Jesus Christ.”

“It’s not like I thought I’d actually get to find you, y’know, I figured they’d try really hard to keep me out. I’m sorry, Dean. I fucked it up.”

“What. Did. You. Do?” Dean repeats. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

            “I wanted to find you. I was so sure you were in heaven. But you know what I did? I hit a fucking _dog,_ ” Sam laughs, disbelieving. “I hit a goddamn dog.”

            After the kind of shit they’ve done and seen, hitting a dog on accident should be pretty much the equivalent of kicking the head off a dandelion in a field. But it’s not to Sam and it never will be.

“This woman, this vet, she took the dog back for surgery and she, uh—” Sam rakes his hair back. “She told me it was my fault. And it was.”

Dean flinches. “So you decided to off yourself?”

Sam shrugs. “Wasn’t much of an informed decision.”

            The only thing Dean can register is _no._ A soft, urgent voice starting up in the back of his head and somehow spreading through him, turning into an actual sensation that sweeps from his gut and into his hands; his fists.

Dean can’t help spitting it out, all the anger and hatred and fear and he just needs Sam to _get it._

            “How’d you do it, Sam? They say guys are more likely to use guns. Did ya do that, or take the easy way out? Little too much Valium with your whiskey?”

            It’s coming out all wrong because he doesn’t want to know. He wants to gather Sam up in his arms and crush him ‘til he gets through his thick skull that he’s not in this alone anymore.

            Instead he hurls insults. Dad would be proud.

            Besides, Dean can try to leave a mark all he wants, but he’s got nothing on Sam’s talent for verbal injury. Worse, Sam nods along with what Dean’s saying like he agrees with all of it.

            “I told you. I tried to bleed out. But there were a lot of ways I coulda done it,” he says, calm as you fucking please.

“Roll the windows up in the Impala—that’d be some nice symbolism, huh? Get myself killed on a job, piss off the wrong demon… You’d think a coupla quick cuts to the femoral, it’d be game over, but,” Sam shakes his head with a small laugh. “Not this time. Shoulda been more careful.”

            _Careful?_

Dean’s ears are ringing.

            Things have never gone right for Sam. Kid might as well have been born backwards; an inversion of what should have been a bright future, spun upside down when he was just six months old by a hand older than anything they’d come up against.

            Demons and scum suckers, thinking they could get their filthy, grimy paws on Sam who’s so fucking good they ought to be licking dirt from his boots.

            Dean’s gonna be sick if this keeps up.

            “I wondered which one would win out— when I died, I mean— heaven or Hell, wondered who had the higher bid. Didn’t even consider Purgatory.”

            Sam laughs, bitter. “Figured a century or so spent in Hell would make it home, right? Not to mention, suicide’s not exactly a priority ticket to upstairs. Still had to try.”

            This is how Sam thinks of his own soul. How can he after spending a year without it? How can he doubt that he has a place in heaven after enduring hundreds of years (maybe thousands, who the hell really knows) of torture at the hands of the two most powerful archangels in existence?

            Sam’s a goddamn martyr if ever there was one.

            “Sam, stop. Just—”

            “I can’t believe I messed it up, I mean, how many times have I almost bled out by _accident_ and when I do it myself—” Sam plows on with a wry smile as if Dean’s not even there.

            “Sam.”

            Sam blinks and looks at him. He shrugs.

            “Sorry.” For upsetting Dean. Not for anything else. Classic Sam.

            The only question Dean can think to ask is “Why now?”

            Sam shrugs. “Why not any day? Hell, the way we live, any’s as good as the next.”

            It stings because it’s true and Dean doesn’t want to fucking hear it. Not now. Not after a year of mud and black slime and blood on his skin.

            His .45’s in his hand before he knows it, snapping the grip towards Sam’s face in a sharp _crack_ of impact.

            Sam almost goes down but catches himself with a knee. He holds his cheek in one hand and pants with his shoulders heaving. He doesn’t so much as whimper.

            For the second time in a week Dean looks down at Sam’s face, covered in blood because of him.

            Regret spikes through him, but it’s the only way Dean knows—the only way John taught him. Pain is now. It’s clear and sharp and _alive_ and that’s how he wants his little brother. Sam can straddle the lines between what they call life and death all he wants but that much is true and he needs to remember it.

            Sam doesn’t get to ask _why_ because Dean doesn’t have an answer. He never has. There is no point and that’s the cold truth. You stare long enough into the abyss—yadda yadda—and Sam’s had an awful lot of time alone to stare that abyss in the face for the past year.

When Sam asked the first time over a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles, Dean could lie and feel good about it. Sam’s pudgy face would go solemn and he’d nod. Because back then, big brother’s word was law.

            He asked so many times that year and he’d always taken Dean’s answers. But later he asked _why_ again, when John had left for a month and a half with ten year old Dean playing Mom and Dad to a Sam he couldn’t seem to keep happy anymore.

            It hurt, seeing the doubt in Sam’s eyes. Doubt in him. Doubt in John. Doubt in the life they lived when Dean never felt it.

            Dean knew what he was supposed to do. He watched Sam and the rest—the target practice, stitching up John with what he’d been taught about field medicine, learning to eye up a potential mark in a pool hall—that was all extra. He’d need it to protect his brother. He took it to heart, didn’t have to question its importance.

            The point is Sam. The point has always been Sam.

            But once Dean started leaving on hunts too, Sam changed.

            He buried himself in books for comfort instead of Dean and when they came back, he was vicious—spitting at John and trying to provoke him into a fight, no matter how crazy it was to cast a stone at John Winchester.

            ‘Cause Sam, skinny, teenage Sam with his smart mouth, too brainy for his own good, could give as good as he got. He learned to spit fire somewhere along the way; probably the only thing that he really had in common with Dean except he could dish it out twice as hard. It got to be a problem once Dean started spending more time patching up the wounds Sam’s words left than he did stitching hunting injuries.

            He tried to tell himself his brother didn’t mean it. But he did. Sam hated hunting, he hated this life, and he _didn’t want it._ Didn’t want them.

            It took a girlfriend burning on the ceiling—not Dean, not John—to get Sam back in the game and back to Dean and Dean wasn’t ever letting him go again. If the kid couldn’t see that he was safer with his own kind, in the long run happier—

            “You don’t get to check out on me.”

            “’S my life,” Sam murmurs, slanted hazel eyes flashing as he looks up at Dean.

            And as daytime TV as it sounds, Dean wants to punch him bloody ‘til he gets that it’s _theirs._ Their lives have never belonged to them. It’d be a flat out lie for Dean to say he lived for himself. He doesn’t get out of bed because of some higher purpose or a desire to do good. Killing baddies is just a bonus on a highway that stretches on for miles without a single exit.

            Dean doesn’t get off and neither does Sam. They keep driving until they can’t anymore, and then somehow they come back and do it again. Together.

            It’s not natural. Not right. Nothing about them is—but they keep going. Them’s the rules as far as Dean’s concerned. It’s not fair and it sure as hell ain’t easy but it’s what they do.

            If Sam stops, Dean stops. All there is to it. And he can’t stop now.

            “Why?” Sam asks and Dean’s blood runs cold and rushes hot all at the same time.

            He kneels down to Sam’s level. Sam’s got the beginnings of a pretty impressive black eye and his glare could melt steel.

            “’Cause I need you to. That good enough for you?”

            “Has been,” Sam grunts. “For years.”

            At first it was family. Then Sam hunted for revenge. Then redemption. All of it a failure. John dead, Bobby dead; everyone they’ve ever loved nothing but a memory and Dean gone.

That’s what Sam got for being a hunter.

 “Don’t you ever,” Dean growls. “Or I swear to God—”

“You’ll what?” Sam gives him a weak smile, wincing when it pulls at his forming bruises. “Kill me?”

“No. I’ll follow you.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

And the problem is there’s no great argument against that logic. Except Dean’s not ready to Romeo and Juliet his _and_ Sam’s life away.

“The problem is you’re bailing on people who need you.”

“Dean, I saw _heaven._ How was I supposed to deal with what’s here when I could’ve had you? Coulda had Mom, and Dad, Jess, Ellen, Bobby, _Jo—”_

“Stop it, Sam. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy.”

“ _Why?”_ Sam spits again, clambering to his feet and shoving Dean’s shoulders. Dean follows him up and gets a good grip on Sam’s shirt. “Why can’t I just—”

“Because it’s not your time.” Dean stands up to his full height.

“It is. I say it is. It’s _my_ life and I’m sick of this shit, I don’t want—” Sam’s voice gets stuck in his throat.

_I don’t want to do this anymore._

Dean can’t look at him. He crosses the room and pulls a jug of whiskey from his duffle bag, pouring two glasses way fuller than he should.

            Dean holds one out to his brother.

            “Drink.”

            He does. He takes it from Dean and knocks it back and doesn’t look away a single time. Barely even blinks.

            Dean can’t deal with this without a good layer of booze soaking into his liver and clouding his head so he drinks, too, glass after glass of gut-burning, plastic jug whiskey scorching down his throat. Dean drinks too fast. He has for the past four years. Sometimes he doesn’t even get drunk ‘til he’s down to the dregs of the bottle. Sometimes not at all.

 He hasn’t eaten anything all day and the whiskey goes straight to his head and it’s not long before the edges are dulled so he can stand to look at Sam again.

            He takes in his brother, too fucking tall and hair too long. This is the kid he’s supposed to protect and Sam’s big enough to break him in half these days. There’s so little of the geeky college boy in there anymore even if you tilt your head and squint. This is the body that held out under the worst torture heaven and Hell had to offer.  It took hit after hit and kept going. Even when Sam didn’t want to live anymore, it didn’t quit, so used to hanging on with everything its got. ‘Cause that’s what Sam used to do, sink his teeth in and shake his head and not let go.

            They drink and listen to each other breathe and Dean hurts everywhere like he’s been worked over by a couple of sledgehammers.

            He nudges Sam towards the bed and Sam goes, limp and obedient and loose from booze.

            Dean leaves him there for a moment, running a washcloth under warm water in the bathroom sink.

            Sam glances up at him, his eyes going hazy, blood crusting on his upper lip.

            _Sucha bastard why you gotta do this shit to your own little brother you’re not John Shouldn’tve hit him, never hurt him, shouldn’tve._

Dean sets next to him on the bed.

            “Look at me.”

            Sam turns towards him but looks down.

            Dean presses the damp cloth to his lip. Sam’s face is already swelling, particularly his nose. Dean pushes down gently on the bridge with two fingers and Sam flinches—it’s painful, but thankfully not broken.

            He dabs the blood away and tries not to look at the swelling. Dean takes the glass from Sam’s hand and brings it to his brother’s lips.

            “Drink.”

            Sam sips at the whiskey.

            “More,” Dean rasps.

            He wants to get Sam's edges blurred, too. He doesn’t want this to hurt Sam as much as it probably does.  

            Sam obeys, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he downs the whiskey. His lip curls a bit as it scorches its way down his throat.

            “Dean,” he says.

            “Yeah, Sammy?”

            “’Sokay. You don’t have to—” he gestures at his face. “I’m okay.”

            Dean lowers the washcloth and considers his little brother.

            The whiskey’s obviously having some effect as Sam’s nodding a bit like his head’s too heavy for his shoulders.

            Drunk Sam is one of Dean’s favorite Sams. He hasn’t seen him drink much lately, though. Really should, God knows he fucking deserves it.

            When he was younger, before he left for Stanford, Sam would drink and get all smiley and slaphappy and try to kiss Dean. He let Dean push him off and act annoyed, but they both knew he wanted it. Sam would roll with it and drape himself over his big brother and say _Deaaaan_ in this breathy, singsong-y way he never would’ve gone for sober. And Dean kept pushing him away with his heart in his throat and hard in his jeans, couldn’t keep from grinning back even though it was _wrong._

            Thinking back on it is just asking for another break down.      

            Sam’s knee moves a fraction of an inch closer, angled towards Dean, and suddenly, yeah fuck it, Dean’s moving closer too. Their arms are touching and he noses into the feathered hair that flips over Sam’s ears. Sam always smells so damn good—like Dial soap and sweat and laundry detergent.

            Sam’s breathing fast and shallow on Dean’s face and Dean’s pulling at his shirt, pushing him down to the mattress.

            “Dean—”

            He manages to maneuver Sam enough to get his blue plaid shirt off, dropping it to the floor.

            “Lay down,” He says. “Flat.”

            Sam hesitates for a second then does as he’s told.

            Dean climbs onto him, straddling his lower back and settling his weight right in the divot before the swell of Sam’s ass.

            Sam spreads out wide underneath him, shoulder blades etched ridges under all that tanned golden skin. Dean’s fingertips drag over his little brother’s back, loving those tremors of muscle that his touch brings. Sam doesn’t even seem aware of them—of how completely his body responds to Dean.

            It’s all his. Like he’s all Sam’s.

            He lingers on the details, re-memorizing all the scars and scratches, shiny patches from burns and warped flesh that never knit together again properly. His eyes trace the broad shoulders that taper down to a tiny, fit waist.

            Dean knows a lot about want. He’s one greedy, gluttonous son of a bitch. He lusts after girls and cars—Hell, even a good slice of warm apple pie.

But he’s never understood, never been able to explain this one. It’s wrong to feel the way he does about Sam. It doesn’t change anything. The apocalypse didn’t, and a year in Purgatory sure as shit didn’t.

His thumbs dig into the muscle right under Sam’s shoulder blades and Sam gasps and his arms go stiff, the bone protruding like nubs of wings. Dean rubs with his palms and Sam goes limp again, purring.

“’Sokay, Sam.”

It’s been years since they came anywhere close to this.

Ever since that time in Nebraska, when Dad almost walked in on them and Dean had realized how stupid, how fucked up he was. Sam had begged, thrown tantrums, even sulked. He gave it up in the end. Dean could count the number of arguments he’s won against Sam’s stubbornness on one hand but he wouldn’t budge on this.

That was then.

Now, Dean slides himself back on Sam until he’s situated just right, his groin pressed up against Sam’s ass and starts to grind into him, slow and lazy and molasses sweet because they have all the time in the world. He leans forward gets a handful of Sam’s ridiculous hair, yanking his head back the way he knows Sam loves. Sure enough, Sam hisses and arches into it.

Sam’s breath rattles against the pillow.

“Jesus, Dean—”

“Quiet.”

And for once, the kid listens.

He doesn’t say a word but backs into Dean with his hips.

He was never allowed to enjoy it before. Back then it was about a few quick tugs at a gas station while John paid at the counter, about _do it now, Dean, please_ and _fuck, Sammy can’t—_ and biting down on the upholstery of that fucking car that was part of their heaven and teenage Sam’s hell. Their life and future tomb.

It was about the taste of Dean’s come in Sam’s mouth, licked off his fingers slutty and quick before Dad came back. It was wrong and over so fast Dean could pretend it never happened.

In those days Dean had gone wild over that look in Sam’s eye—the one that scared him and got him off so fucking easy it made him nauseous when he thought about it later. Big mistake to think about things later, Dean knows that now.

Sam scared him back then. Still does sometimes cause Sammy and Sam are so different—Sammy _fucked_ (too young, too fast)his own brother and asked for Dean to put his hands _yeah there,_ so he could get off with Dean’s fingers bruising his shoulder, his throat, contorted in the backseat and _goddamn he’s too young for this too fucking young—_

There was always something a little crazy in Sam. It just didn’t get out when people were looking.

And then he went to Stanford and got on the straight and narrow, too good for anything Dean could offer and sure as shit better than the road and the blood and the stench of sulfur that followed him to Palo Alto. He’d even had a girlfriend. Nice blonde chick (the _legs_ on her), how ‘bout that.

After he picked Sam up at Stanford he’d hoped. He was desperate and Sam couldn’t see him through the haze of all that red, all that blood he wanted to see run for the girl burning on the ceiling and it made Dean so goddamn jealous.

 He pulls his own t-shirt off and drapes himself over Sam’s back, inch of skin by inch.

“Wanna fuck you, Sammy,” Dean pants right into his ear and Sam actually groans, rubbing himself on the mattress, his tight, lithe body writhing against Dean and it’s way too much.

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs back and Dean tastes the sweat on his neck just to see if it’s the same. He presses his mouth to Sam’s throat and drinks him in, all salty and wet and Dean could fucking eat him alive.

He doesn’t have any lube and going dry isn’t gonna happen. Sam’s too tight for that, always has been.

Dean slides off him and on his side next to Sam so he can pull him in close, spooning their bodies together.

He wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, pushing his brother’s pants and boxers down by inches. He’s glad he’s behind Sam because he can’t stop his fingers from wandering but he doesn’t want to see—

He catches himself before the gasp escapes him, but his hand stutters to a stop.

The skin of Sam’s thigh is laced with scarring—too smooth to the touch and raised in knots.

Sam goes stiff and tense and only relaxes when Dean’s mouth finds its way back to his throat and he takes Sam’s cock in his hand instead.

Sam’s hard, really fucking hard and feels so good in his fist. Thick and heavy and the smell of him—salt and sex and _dark_ underneath it all. Hard to believe Sam used to be a scrawny kid, all elbows and sour faces when Dean tried to drag him out of a book and back into real life.

Dean closes his eyes and lets himself touch for the first time in so long. He releases his grip and his hands wander all over Sam—his out of this world abs, his lower stomach, running his fingers through Sam’s pubic hair and then skimming up his inner thighs.

Sam, Sammy—both inside this beautiful, tanned body that opens up for him— tangled up and inseparable, the sides of Sam only Dean’s seen and the secrets Sam’s never shared and the pain he’s never been able to bleed out.

Dean’s not worthy and he’s not ever going to be and this is what he sold his soul for. This is the second chance you get when Hell spits you back out.

And if Dean wonders how many more times they can go through this, he doesn’t have to wonder for long because Sam’s shaking under him and he’s always known the answer anyways. Sam could tear Dean’s soul out himself and he’d be glad to offer it up. He’d offer anything. He’d spend a century in Purgatory and smile about it.

This is real and this is heaven and this is Hell because even after everything, it’s Sammy who lost so much, too—who drank blood, cut himself open for Dean and would’ve burned a bridge or the world itself out from underneath his feet if it meant he had a chance to fall down to his big brother. Would’ve pulled a trigger, drew a knife over his own arteries because it’s nothing compared to trying to make sense of _real_ without each other. It doesn’t matter where they are now. It doesn’t matter who or what they’ve left behind.

This is it; the only answer he can give Sam. This is the only point and it never stops being pain and ecstasy mixed up in their own family brand of Molotov.

“Don’t you ever,” Dean growls, one hand wrapping in the hair at Sam’s nape and pulling, his right wrapping around Sam’s cock and sliding from the base to the crown. “Not ever again.”

Sam nods and breathes hard through his mouth with his eyes closed the whole time.

“Won’t. Won’t, Dean.”

Dean slicks his hand with Sam’s precome, his fingers already sticky as Sam’s hips start rolling as he fucks into Dean’s fist, slow and restrained at first but picking up speed as Dean murmurs encouragements.

“G-god, Jesus— Dean, fuck, I—”

Dean bites down into the flesh of Sam’s shoulder and drags his mouth over his own teeth marks, running his tongue over them and sucking, kissing. He gets a better grip on Sam’s hair, long tufts of it sticking out between his fingers as he grinds against his little brother’s ass.

“What, Sam?”

Sam can’t really form words at the moment, what with his big brother yanking on his hair and humping him with his jeans still on, but those little moans—those will do just fine. When Sam gets like this, so turned-on he can’t even talk, his voice just comes out in the exact same gasps he made back _before,_ when he was still wiry and thin and Dean could practically put his hands around Sam’s waist. Back when he was just a high school geek, still a “virgin” because no matter how badly he wanted to be normal, he couldn’t get enough of Dean’s mouth, Dean’s cock; the way he smelled like Old Spice and sometimes tasted like cigarettes. 

Dean blows his load way too quick against Sam’s ass but doesn’t stop, jerking Sam off in long, slow strokes while he rubs himself against his brother and breathes in deep.

Sam comes too loud like old times and Dean coaxes him through it, pressing so close his edges might bleed into Sam’s.

“I got ya, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, his hand covered in Sam’s hot spunk.

Sam shudders, his entire body heaving in Dean’s arms.

He rolls over to face Dean, trapping Dean’s hand between them so that he can feel Sam’s scars.

He catches Dean’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, devouring like he’s trying to borrow some breath to steady himself. His cheeks are wet and they’re filthy—Dean’s jeans are covered in streaks of Sam’s come and his own ruined boxers are starting to stick to his crotch.  

But God they haven’t kissed like this in—

Sam surges forward and Dean’s reeling under all of that force, his mouth being filled, filled, _filled_ with Sam—hot air and the stale taste of whiskey and the stink of their bodies.

“’M sorry,” Sam gasps against Dean’s lips when he comes up for air, “So fucking sorry, Dean.”

And Dean bites down on Sam’s lower lip, silencing him with another sharp kiss that knocks their teeth together. Dean thumbs the tears from Sam’s cheek, thinks better of teasing him for them.

Their kissing gets looser, slower, and Sam’s got Dean’s leg between his, rubbing up on it gently. He buries his face in Dean’s shoulder and Dean manages not to recoil from the cold and wet.

They don’t say a word but Dean’s hand ends up in Sam’s hair again. Sam falls asleep and Dean watches the minutes crawl by on the digital clock on the bedside table.

Five minutes.

His skin itches from the drying mess but he doesn’t want to wake Sam up.

Ten minutes.

If Dean hadn’t come back, would Sam have kept trying to kill himself? Dean can’t say he wouldn’tve done the same.

Twelve minutes.

Sam’s brow furrows. He’s dreaming.

Fourteen minutes.

As if Sam didn’t try to find him. Sam always tried and took it too far. It was part of why they’d ended up here in the first place. It’s part of why Dean is utterly, absolutely locked with him.

Eighteen minutes.

His eyelids are growing heavy and he’s half-expecting his phone to start ringing on the bedside table. Benny needs to stay away because even Dean’s not sure if he would stop Sam from ganking him if it meant getting to keep this.

Dean closes his eyes, letting sleep and the smell of his little brother wash over him. Sam twitches and scoots his body closer to Dean’s.

It feels pure. 


End file.
